It had been days— agonizingly slow, mind-numbing days—since we set sail for DunBroch.
I'd imagined our journey would feel like a warrior's march—wind in the sails, steel in hand, the roar of adventure in our ears. But instead, it was a monotonous crawl across a vast blue emptiness. No sparring. No training. No action. Just the ceaseless creaking of the ship and the endless sway, like the world itself had grown tired and decided to rock me into a stupor.
I didn't think sailing could be this… dull.
Father had forbidden me from any rigorous movement. "You must arrive in your prime," he'd said, standing stiff as stone with arms crossed and eyes like polished iron. "No injuries, no strain. Presentation matters."
So instead of testing my strength or sharpening my form, I sat. I paced. I brooded. I counted the knots in the wooden planks until the numbers blurred together. I watched the crew scrub decks and hoist sails. I watched the horizon. I watched him—my father—towering at the prow like a sentinel, his eyes locked on the distance as if daring the world to challenge us.
He never spoke much during the voyage, but his silence spoke volumes. Every breath he took was deliberate. Every step echoed with purpose. He carried the weight of our name like a crown and a burden.
I sighed for what had to be the hundredth time and leaned on the railing.
"I'm going insane," I muttered to no one.
And just as my patience thinned to its final thread, a long, low blast shattered the stillness. A horn, deep and mournful, reverberated through the fog like the voice of the gods themselves.
I snapped upright, heart pounding, breath caught in my throat. Shapes emerged through the mist—wooden docks, fluttering banners, the jagged cliffs of DunBroch rising like ancient teeth from the sea.
Land. Civilization. At last.
"Thank the gods!" I surged forward, feet already moving toward the edge of the ship, eyes wide with relief. The wind hit my face, briny and sharp, and for the first time in days, I felt alive.
But before I could even lean over the rail, a hand shot out—unyielding, strong, like iron forged in winter.
"Control yourself," came the voice, low and steady.
I blinked, startled, and looked up. My father's face was calm, but the look in his eyes was anything but soft.
"You are the heir of Berk. A representative of our people. Compose yourself. You will not walk into that hall like some feral beast."
His words landed with the weight of command. I felt heat rise to my cheeks, anger prickling at the edge of my pride. But I swallowed it. I knew better than to argue—not here, not now.
"…Yes, Father."
The ship creaked as it pulled into the harbor, and the castle of DunBroch loomed above us, carved into the cliffs like a monument to defiance. Banners danced in the wind—Macintosh blue, Macguffin green, Dingwall red. Guards in tartan and chainmail lined the docks, hands resting on their weapons, eyes sharp and searching.
As we disembarked, the air shifted. Tense. Expectant.
We walked through the winding stone paths into the heart of the stronghold. The great hall was vast—its ceilings arching like the ribs of a giant beast, its walls etched with the scars of time and flame. Torches burned with orange fire, casting shadows that danced like ghosts of warriors past.
People from every clan stood gathered—lords and ladies, warriors and heirs, all draped in the colors of their bloodlines. The murmurs dulled as we entered, like ripples stilling before a storm.
At the head of the hall sat King Fergus—massive, broad-shouldered, with a beard as wild as the Highlands. His good eye was sharp, piercing. The other, long lost to a bear, only made him look more dangerous.
I scanned the crowd.
Some wore flowing blue with noses raised too high, walking as if their bones were carved from ice. Others were built like boulders—thick, wide, more muscle than man. And then there were the odd ones—short, round, faces twisted by years of drink and rage, their voices loud even in silence.
But I wasn't looking at bodies. I was looking for strength. Power.
And then I saw her.
A girl—no, a flame—standing with shoulders relaxed, but every line of her body spoke of readiness. Her hair was red as fire, braided and fierce. Her eyes, sharp and gray, locked onto mine the moment I saw her.
A shimmer flickered in my vision:
Archery (Lv. 50/50)
I felt my pulse quicken.
Max level?
My lips curled into a smirk. Finally, someone interesting.
Then the hall fell silent as King Fergus rose from his throne, his voice booming across stone and heart alike.
"Let the presentation of suitors begin!"
The Macintoshes were first. Their chieftain shoved his son forward like a prize boar.
"He who slew a thousand men! With his blade the stab Blooder."
The son spun his sword with flair, then struck a pose that looked more like constipation than confidence.
The crowd erupted in cheers. I resisted the urge to groan.
Next were the Macguffins.
"Breaker of Viking longships! Slayer of two thousand men!"
This one cracked a log in half with bare hands. Applause thundered.
Yes, yes. Big strong man. I'd seen better.
Then came the Dingwalls. A towering man strode up, shadowing a tiny boy at his side.
"I present to you—"
The man stepped aside, revealing another boy. The "real" heir. Short. Unimpressive. His stats didn't even break 10.
I almost laughed.
And then—chaos.
"Oi! You stepped on my kilt, ya stump!"
The hall exploded in shouting and shoving. The Dingwalls lunged at the Macguffins. The Macintoshes joined in, fists flying, weapons drawn. Guards rushed in, shouting orders, trying to break up the brawl.
I didn't move. I stood still, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded.
Pathetic.
And then the chaos parted like mist before a storm.
My father stepped forward. The hall fell into a hush so thick, it felt like the air itself held its breath.
He didn't need to raise his voice.
"Your Majesty," he said, his tone like tempered steel. "I present my son—Erik Horrendous Haddock, heir of Berk."
A pause.
"Since the day of his birth, he has never known defeat. At five, he slew a wolf with his bare hands. At fifteen, he cleared the forests of Berk of every predator. That same year, he faced dragons—and won."
He turned, his gaze meeting mine like a challenge.
"They call him Erik the Untamed. Many challengers came, lured by tales of his power. Every one of them left broken. Defeated. Humbled."
The silence that followed was deeper than any fog we'd sailed through. Then a whisper rose.
"Erik…"
And another.
"ERIK…"
The chant grew, surged like a tidal wave.
"ERIK! ERIK! ERIK!"
My name echoed through the stone walls, carried by the voices of warriors and nobles alike. Not just strangers—witnesses. Witnesses to what would come.
I stepped forward, the weight of their gazes resting on my shoulders. I felt no fear. Only fire.
Let them watch. Let them remember. This is only the beginning.
As I stood proudly before the crowd, head held high amidst the roaring cheers, a strange feeling churned in my stomach. Victory should have tasted sweet, but something about this celebration felt… premature.
Suddenly, a loud bang—like a cannon blast—ripped through the air, silencing the merriment in an instant. Gasps echoed. The crowd erupted into panic, warriors drawing weapons with reflexive speed. Blades clashed. Shields raised. Even the king leapt from his throne and plunged into the fray with a fierce war cry.
My body tensed as chaos erupted. I spun around, searching for threats, for sense—but found none. What the hell was happening?
Amidst the confusion, I turned to my father. He stood still—too still. His lips twitched with something I couldn't quite place. Amusement? Resignation?
"Father?" I asked, furrowing my brows.
He didn't answer. Just gave a slow shake of his head, like a man watching children squabble over spilled mead. I could feel my pulse racing, uncertainty buzzing under my skin.
And then, like a tide parting the sea, the queen rose from her throne. Regal and unwavering, her presence alone calmed the fury around her. The fighting ceased as she strode forward, her steps measured, commanding. A path opened in the crowd as if by instinct. All eyes followed her, curious, reverent.
She didn't speak—not yet. Instead, she made her way to the four chieftains of the clans, all of whom looked suddenly like misbehaving boys caught red-handed.
What she did next stunned even the rowdiest warriors into silence.
She reached out, grabbed each of the four by their ears, and tugged them—yes, tugged them—to the front of the throne like naughty school children.
A breath caught in my throat. I blinked.
"Damn," I muttered under my breath. "That was badass."
Around me, snorts of laughter rippled under hushed breaths. No one dared speak aloud.
Then, the queen turned to the assembly, her voice resonant and clear.
"In accordance with our laws, by the rights of our heritage, only the firstborn of each great leader may be selected as champions—and thus, compete for the hand of the princess of DunBroch."
A murmur spread through the crowd.
"It is customary," she continued, "for the champions to prove their worth by feats of strength or arms, in the games chosen by the princess herself—"
"Archery!" came a defiant voice from the crowd.
All heads turned.
The Princess Merida stepped forward, hair wild as flame, eyes like twin green daggers. "I choose archery."
The queen nodded solemnly. "Then let the games begin."
The crowd erupted with cheers once more, but this time, it felt focused, electric. A new energy pulsed through the field.
Hours later, the field was cleared. A large target was set up a little over a dozen feet away. Spectators formed a ring around the archery ground. The sun was warm on my face as I stood with the other contestants. The moment had come.
The MacGuffin champion went first. He was strong, burly, muscles flexing beneath his bear-hide armor—but the bow looked comically small in his hands. He drew, aimed… and hit the outermost circle.
A disappointing gasp echoed.
"Tough luck," I murmured. "Bad day to bring a warhammer to an archery fight."
Next came Macintosh.
He strutted forward, flexing his muscles, pausing to pose. I rolled my eyes.
"Gods, someone get him a mirror," I muttered.
He let the arrow fly. It whizzed through the air and struck near the center—close, but not perfect. The crowd clapped, though it was clear they expected more.
Then came Dingwall.
A skinny boy with shaky hands and eyes too wide. He fumbled with the bow. The string slipped once, then twice. He could barely notch the arrow. My patience thinned.
"Come on," I muttered. "You're making a bow look like a siege weapon."
The king shouted from the sidelines. "Oh, c'mon, boy, shoot already!"
Startled, Dingwall let the arrow fly. It zipped forward and—miraculously—hit the dead center.
A collective gasp filled the air.
"Holy shit," I said aloud. "He actually did it."
Luck? Divine favor? Maybe both. Either way, the bar had been raised.
And now, it was my turn.
I stepped forward, calm and steady. My skill, Versatile Arsenal, had reached Level 29. This would be a walk in the park.
I drew my arrow, notched it smoothly, pulled the string back with practiced ease, and exhaled.
Thunk.
Dead center.
The cheers roared louder than before.
I nodded to the crowd, barely suppressing a grin. Then something—someone—caught my eye.
A figure in a black hood stepped onto the field. The tension returned, but it shifted into awe when the figure pulled back her hood.
Princess Merida.
"I am Princess Merida of DunBroch, the firstborn of the leader of my tribe," she declared. "And today—I fight for my own hand."
Silence.
My breath hitched. She stood there, radiant and fierce. Not just a princess. A warrior. A force of nature.
"She's… different," I whispered to myself.
In my past lives and this one, I'd seen princesses pampered and cloistered. Merida stood apart—fire in her eyes and storm in her soul.
She picked up her bow.
Her first arrow flew straight and true—dead center.
The next. Dead center.
The third—at Dingwall's target. She split his arrow clean in half.
The final target was mine.
She drew, loosed—
Crack.
Her arrow split mine in two.
The crowd erupted in awe.
I stood frozen, watching her with something between admiration and rivalry. I couldn't beat her—not as I was.
But I had planned ahead.
I raised my hand, signaling to a nearby Viking. He stepped forward, unveiling the cloth-draped object in his hands.
Gasps spread.
It was my bow—hand-forged, layered with rare blackroot elm, infused with runic enhancements. I'd prepared it days ago, just in case.
I grabbed the weapon, the weight familiar and reassuring in my hands.
The crowd held its breath.
I drew the arrow, focused, and fired.
The arrow screamed through the air, piercing Merida's arrow, splintering it and the target behind it—continuing into a tree well beyond the range.
It was embedded halfway through the trunk.
A stunned silence followed.
My father stood, speechless.
Then—applause. Deafening applause.
The queen rose, eyes wide but proud.
"We have a winner!" she declared.
Merida turned, eyes blazing.
"That's not fair!" she began. "I never agreed to—"
But the queen raised her hand.
"The rules were followed. Let this be done."
Merida's jaw tightened, but she said nothing more. She turned away, her shoulders tense—but her chin held high.
I exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding from my shoulders.